Catching a Star

This is one of those things that I wish I'd thought of first. Very cool. Go here to see a larger version.

The Bus, Part I

To get to my job and classes at the University of Illinois, I drive to the commuter lot and take the bus from there. There are no more than two shuttle busses running (Route: 23Shuttle), so you have to wait no longer than 10 minutes for a bus to come. The ride itself lasts about ten minutes as well.

I am a bit of a control freak when it comes to getting from point A to point B. As such, I like my car. It does what I tell it, when I tell it to. I don’t have to pull a cord and ask my car to stop and let me off. There aren’t people in my car who converse loudly about how their cat threw up in their best pair of pumps at 4 a.m. Most importantly, I never have to wait in the rain or snow or ninety-five degree heat for ten full minutes for my car to come and pick me up. Yes, ten minutes is not a long time to have to wait, unless you have another hour and three-quarters yet to drive. Adding insult to this wait is the absolute fact (in my mind, anyway) that other bus routes are teaming up to demonstrate the inferiority of the 23Shuttle route. As I stand on the curb waiting to be taken back to my car, the air is thick with busses. My bus, however, is rarely among this swarming cloud of transportation. Before 23Shuttle comes even once, 22Illini, 26Pack, and 5NorthWestReddishBrownSuperDoubleExpress frequently stop twice each for pickups, their self-satisfied riders smirking at us commuter lot losers.

I am willing to apologize for some of the above peevishness, but only some of it. Yes, father-in-my-head, I am lucky and blessed that the U of I has a (semi-)free transportation service that makes my life easier. This blessed condition does not make shower-phobic guy sitting right next to me smell any better. Allow me my small complaints.

I suppose that there is an upside to this, which demonstrates one of life’s truths: hardship and reward often come from the same source. Because waiting ten-plus minutes in the sleet is no fun at all, waiting for zero minutes provides a small but real joy. To walk out of my building and arrive at the bus stop at the exact moment that 23West pulls up to the curb is a solid ending to a frequently boring workday, and it allows me to imagine that the bus is really a limousine sent solely for me. Allow me my small derangements.

The second part of the bus-waiting equation is music. Upon being given an iPod mp3 player (traveling personal soundtrack device), I decided that I would never again have to hear about anyone’s cat puke or similar. There is the argument that eavesdropping on the conversations of random strangers can provide entertainment, comedy, insight into the human condition, etc. I contend that this is not true at all, mainly because ninety-seven times out of one hundred, the lives of random strangers are as boring as an accountants convention. I find it much more relaxing and enjoyable to have my favorite music piped directly into my brainpan, simultaneously shutting out the blather and creating a soundtrack for the moment. Watching two secretaries yak about their day to the tune of Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls” is infinitely more entertaining than hearing what they’re actually saying. Thank you, iPod, for allowing me to press the mute button when around the general public.

Don’t worry – I didn’t tell you about the bus simply to complain. I told you about the bus so that I could tell you about one particular incident that falls directly into the “I need to buy a camera cell phone” category. I’ll tell that story shortly. Thanks as always for your interest and your patience.


What are these people talking about? I'm not terribly interested.

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Book Recommendation: The Right Stuff, by Tom Wolfe

[A word about book recommendations: I’ll try to keep it short, limiting things to a brief synopsis and a few reasons that the book deserves your attention. There won’t be a rating system, as I won’t waste your time discussing books that you shouldn’t read.]

Written in 1982, Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff is a nonfiction account of the evolution of the fighter-jocks of the late 1950’s into the Mercury astronauts of the 1960’s. There are two parts to any quality nonfiction work, and in this case both parts are great.

The first part is the history, which in this case is amazing. This is a story worth telling, to be sure. Wolfe starts off with the general culture of fighter-jockdom, detailing the life of a navy flyer (and test pilot) from the perspective of both the pilot and his wife. He then moves to the account of Chuck Yeager’s breaking of the sound barrier, complete with all of the near-death experiences, barroom shenanigans, and detailed physics information you can imagine. Next, the meat of the book details the selection process and subsequent rise to fame of the Mercury astronauts, the first seven Americans to venture into space. Wolfe captures not only the personal and professional lives of Shepard, Glenn, Grissom, and the others, but also the way in which the fledgling space program captured the imagination of the entire nation. It is a fascinating story, from beginning to end, and Wolfe’s comprehensive approach and attention to detail make it well worth reading.

Second, the writing itself is stellar. Nonfiction can be pretty dry to say the least, but Wolfe writes in a cavalier, engaging style that makes a colorful story even more entertaining. Consider his description of navy pilot Pete Conrad: “At any moment his face was likely to break into a wild grin revealing the gap between his front teeth. The Hickory Kid sort, he was; a Hickory Kid on the deb circuit, however. He had an air of energy, self-confidence, ambition, joie de vivre.” Wolfe demonstrates similar originality describing how the bad news of a pilot’s death should be delivered to his wife: “…a man should bring the news when the time comes, a man with some official or moral authority, a clergyman or a comrade of the newly deceased. Furthermore, he should bring the bad news in person. He should turn up at the front door and ring the bell and be standing there like a pillar of coolness and competence, bearing the bad news on ice, like a fish.” If nonfiction is typically dry, The Right Stuff is soaking wet. Wolfe’s style is at once creative, comical, and deeply insightful.

If you have any interest whatsoever in aviation, the space program, or generally in this major chapter of American history, I highly recommend Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff. And for what it’s worth, the movie of the same name is both extremely well done and, as far as memory serves, quite faithful to the historical accuracy of the book.

The Armed Bard of Middle America

If you don’t frequent the interstates around Urbana-Champaign, Illinois, then you probably aren’t aware of the lyric poet making his mark in that region. This socially conscious artist, equipped with only his wits, his convictions, and state-of-the-art sign making equipment, has set out to change the political beliefs of literally thousands of American drivers. His inspiration appears to be the one-line-per-sign roadside jokes of Hee-Haw* fame. If you didn’t watch Hee Haw, you’ll see what I mean in a minute. The subjects of his verse are wide ranging, so as to appeal to the broadest possible audience. [Apologies for the blurry quality of some of these photos, but photography at 75mph is not a precision activity.]

He reflects the nervous state of America with regards to terrorism in this cautionary ode:

He demonstrates his deep understanding of our nation’s history:

Concerned about home invasion? He offers solid advice:

And finally, if you were worried about the potential dangers of your local shooting club:


“But,” asks the average interstate traveler, “where might I find out more about this poet’s beliefs? His witty rhymes have piqued my curiosity!” The Bard will not leave you in the dark, dear driver:


Regardless of your position on 2nd Amendment rights (and there are variety of viewpoints on that issue that I feel are respectable), you’ve got to admit that this is comedy of the highest order. The chain of logic that resulted in the posting of these signs is nothing short of inspired genius:

1. I support the 2nd Amendment and wish to share my views with the general public.

2. The general public often drives on interstates.

3. They’ll be driving 75 mph, so I’ll have to keep it brief.

4. And pithy. And memorable.

5. I’ve got it! Four line rhymes! Thank you, Hee Haw!

6. Plus, I’ll start a web site. Now to think of a memorable address….

And again, regardless of your stance on firearms, a whirl around www.gunssavelife.com is pretty entertaining. You can find links to articles such as “Nickelodeon – the Brainwashing Network” and to the book Dial 911 and Die: The Shocking Truth about the Police Protection Myth. And, should you wish to demonstrate your personal lyric prowess, you may go here to submit your very own roadside poem and one day passers-by might be treated to your brilliant lyrics. So get off your lazy mental ass and make some art, dammit! I have made the effort, and in doing so have discovered a vast wealth of personal poetic talent:

My brother owns guns
As does Charlton Heston.
They’re both excellent guys,
But you don’t want to test ‘em.

When the feds come around
To take my arsenal
I’ll give them more trouble
Than Johnny Carson’ll.

Look for my work on I-74 westbound, mile marker 197.

*Yes, Hee Haw was a part of my rich but strange childhood. So were Grape Nuts. Give me a break.

Signs of the Apocalypse or Small Madnesses?

In the last week, I’ve come across these two photos. I’m still debating their meaning. Are they further signs that the apocalypse is upon us, the U.S. is going to hell in a hand basket, and that modern society is frighteningly out of touch with reality? I’m leaning towards the negative on that. Instead, I think that things like this are great examples of a small but deeply distracted and bored segment of the population. All societies will have their crazies, and these are just some small reminders that we have ours.

First, this from an actual Botox brochure. Don’t ask me where I got it:

Yes, the insanity of Botox is nothing new, but I don’t think I realized how much so until I saw this ad. I understood the desire to eliminate a few forehead wrinkles, but I guess I hadn’t admitted to myself that there are people out there that actually want expressionless faces. Can you imagine trying to express your discontent using the “after” frown? I think you’d have to carry laminated emotion cards around with you so that people would have a clue as to your mood: “You have upset me and I am frowning.” Walter Matthau is rolling in his grave, I assure you.

Second, this ad from Kohler, placed in the New York Times Magazine:

If you can’t read the caption, it says, “Introducing the Purist Hatbox toilet by Kohler.” Yes, that’s a crapper upon which our exploded-hair runway model has perched her hindquarters. This means that not only is she demonstrating exactly how fashionable this toilet is (why, as fashionable as she is, of course), but she is also demonstrating how to use it. I ask you to picture two different scenes:

1. The design/marketing meeting at which this contraption was created: “I’ve got it: a toilet that doesn’t look like a toilet. It looks like…uhhhh…an end table! No, no, a hatbox! Yeah, that’s it! And we put a model on top of it, looking bathroom-sexy! Genius! We’ll all get five-figure bonuses this year!”

2. A midtown-Manhattan party thrown at a locale featuring one of these beauties. Some poor drunken sap is going to have to go and will be unable to determine which high-fashion object in the bathroom is actually the toilet. I’m betting that he pees in the sink.

Movie Review – Sin City (B+)

This is one hell of a movie.

Maybe I should clarify that. This is one of the most violent, grim, twisted movies I’ve seen in quite a while. Its characters are warped beyond humanity, broken beyond repair, and desperate beyond hope. Bullets fly, blood flows, and the severed limbs pile up in the causes of revenge, justice, greed, betrayal, or maniacal psychosis. Do not, under any circumstances, take your mother to see this movie.

But it is still one hell of a movie. Mom, I’m sorry. I know, why would a son like me enjoy the movie described by the above paragraph? Because it is just so freaking cool, and sometimes that’s all a movie has to be.

“Sin City” is based on the series of graphic novels by Frank Miller. For those of you who don’t know, a graphic novel is essentially a long comic book, only a lot more so in terms of art, writing, and depth of story. I haven’t read any of Miller’s work, and that doesn’t take away from the movie at all. The stories – three separate tales woven together in the film – stand completely on their own, with only the bare bones of back story filled in where necessary.

From a pure stylistic perspective, this is a nearly perfect movie, and that’s probably the coolest thing about it. It’s visually amazing. It looks exactly like a moving comic book from start to finish. Probably ninety-five percent of the scenes are in black and white, with the exception of single colors – red lipstick, blue eyes, yellow blood, etc. – that are brilliantly overemphasized. The action scenes – especially the car chases – have been animated in a way that doesn’t even pretend to look realistic. They just look, well, cool. If you haven’t seen the previews, go here and see what I’m talking about.

The stylized feel extends beyond the amazing visuals. The acting and dialogue feel a lot like a 1930’s detective movie, only much darker. There are internal monologues, clichéd phrases, and overdramatic moments of passion, heartbreak, or revelation. In any remotely realistic movie, it would be hard to get away with a line like, “It’s time to prove to your friends that you’re worth a damn. Sometimes that means dying. Sometimes it means killing a whole lot of people,” but in “Sin City,” it absolutely works. It’s just super cool.

As far as the stories themselves, they’re extremely entertaining. They take place in dark, ugly locations where dirty is the only way to get things done. There are twists and turns, some of which you are supposed to see coming, and some of which blindside you. Nearly all of the characters are flawed in one way or another, so don’t go looking for traditional heroes or storybook endings, because your guy just might do something gut-wrenchingly violent in the next scene. Not all the questions are answered, not all of the loose ends are tied up. In true comic book style, a substantial suspension of disbelief is required, but this isn’t that kind of movie. The stories are completely believable simply because the world of the movie is so unique and so comprehensively rendered.

If I were judging this movie on how well it accomplished its goals, I’d have to give it an A+. It is visually stunning, incredibly entertaining, and unlike almost any other movie I’ve ever seen. The reason that I’m giving it a B+ is because no amount of style points can hide the fact that there isn’t much in the way of substance to “Sin City.” It’s similar in that respect to “Pulp Fiction,” which is a spectacular and hilarious movie, but is also a complete triumph of style over substance. No moral of the story, no attempt to change the way you look at life. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this – you don’t want “Dead Poets Society” every time you go to the movies – but for my own rating purposes, movies of the “style over substance” variety don’t get a higher grade than B+. But this is one hell of a super cool B+ movie.

Aren't we all so cool? Yes we are.

Change = Bad

A friend of mine in college once proposed the above theory regarding life in general. Of course, I don’t think this is universally true, but there are some areas of life in which the formula fundamentally, undeniably applies. Change = bad.

On the other hand, my father once pointed out that human beings seem to be extremely resistant to change, but that once our resistance breaks, we accept the new state of things and the old ways fade in a big hurry. Cultural amnesia strikes very quickly, especially with regards to things that we take for granted. Remember when that strip mall used to be just a nice empty field? Yes, you remember, but you have to squint your memory pretty hard to picture it, and it doesn’t make you as mad now as it did when you first found out it was going to happen. Or how about your local bank, which has changed names six times in the past eight years? Irritating, yes, but you probably can’t recall all of the bygone company monikers. Along the same lines but less likely to be truly bothersome is the product logo or package. Case in point: Trident Gum.

By way of preface, I chew gum the way some people smoke. Okay, not quite, but six pieces is a pretty average day. Thank you, four out of five dentists, for stamping my habit with a gigantic “good for your teeth” endorsement. I think fresh breath is an important part of daily life, and chewing gum also keeps me attentive on long car trips (of which I take quite a few). Trident has been my gum of choice for about six or seven years now, since the day that I realized that Extra just wasn’t meeting my chewing needs. In seven years, Trident has been one of those very small bedrocks in my life. It always looked the same, and it always tasted the same. A small, unbending tree in the gale force winds of life. Until last week.

To recap, here is what the old Trident package looked like:

Solid design all around. Not too flashy, as it is just gum, for crying out loud. Unique logo. Good, simple endorsements regarding chewing length and dental health. Most important, that solid, grade-school-blocky blue-white-red color scheme, reiterating that this is Trident. The. Trident. Gum. A steady, reliable bastion of gum normalcy in this mad mad world of metal-lined pop-out containers and gimmick-laden flavor insanity.

Further, consider the wrapper on the individual pieces:

Again, simple, cheerful, stalwart. The tri-color design offers a nice visual variety without being overbearing. This is clearly a gum on which I can rely. My breath will be freshened, but nothing extreme or untoward will happen in my mouth. It will make me happy without causing immorality.

And so, about a week ago, there I stood in the grocery checkout line, faced with this mini-shock to the foundations of my life:

Some creative bastard in the graphic design department had finally gotten his slimy hands on my beloved Trident package, and I was shaken. What is this brilliant light exploding from behind the brand name? Where are my solid blocks of unassuming color? Why is there cursive writing? Was Trident ever a low calorie food? And finally, what the heck is Xylitol?

It was a weak moment, I’ll admit. But I was brave, and I pressed forward, buying a package. A quick comparison of the nutritional information revealed that in calorie terms, nothing had changed. Old Trident and New Trident both offer less than 5 calories per slice (how is this not “low calorie?”). Not that I was worried about it, really, but when your gum reminds you that it is not a low calorie food, it bears a small bit of looking into. Then, I took out a piece:

Needless to say, I was sorely missing the tricolor simplicity of the old wrapper scheme. Although cheerful in reminding me of its dental health, red and black is a pretty dull combination, and I already know that Trident is good for my teeth.

I took the next step, despite struggling in the throes of human change-rejection. And then I found out what Xylitol is. Apparently, it is a chemical that makes my gum taste different. I can’t really describe in what way it tastes different, but it surely as hell does. Is it bad? No, not exactly. It’s just different. And at that moment, chewing my first piece of New Trident, I found myself swimming deep in the equation. Change = bad.

“Oh, for crying out loud, it’s just gum,” you’re saying. “Get over it.” Well, it’s a week later, and, oh, okay, fine. I’m letting it go. I have become accustomed (conspiracy theorists would prefer “addicted”) to this mysterious Xylitol substance, and yep, dad, you were right, I can hardly remember what Old Trident tastes like. I’m moving forward, but it is with the sneaking suspicion that I’ve been had, somehow or another. I am uncomfortable in this New Trident universe, but I don’t have any choice and my amnesiac-brain is quickly dulling that discomfort. I suppose that in the end, I should take this as an example that change = not so bad as you might think, but I’m not entirely sure. Small constants are nice to have. I guess I’ll just have to fall back on the ever-reliable taste and packaging of good old Mountain Dew. They’d never change that.

Oh, and if you want to know what Xylitol is, go here.